


One Summer, My Far Horizon

by frogfarm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1992)
Genre: F/F, Non-Canon Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-16
Updated: 2008-01-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On her way to Sunnydale after losing Diana to Kakistos, Faith meets a lone witch on a deserted farm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Summer, My Far Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Buffy S2-S3; by canon, both women are seventeen. Go down to the woods, cut some timber, build a bridge, and get over it.
> 
> Submitted for Round 21 of [](http://femslash-minis.livejournal.com/profile)[**femslash_minis**](http://femslash-minis.livejournal.com/). For [](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/)**snowpuppies** , who requested: _fire, a blanket, flirting_

Tara never sleeps in. Except on those rare occasions when she actually comes down with a bug -- unlike her mother, she's as healthy as a herd of horses -- even before she started school it was always early to bed, earlier still to rise. Her brother drags his feet, looks half-dead by the time lunch rolls around, but rain or shine, she loves being up at the smallest of hours. Watching the world come alive.

Today is no different. Even with the rest of the family away -- Dad and Donny off to the city, cousin Beth across town to sit for the Pearsons' youngest -- Tara awakens well before dawn. She lingers abed just long enough to bask in the unaccustomed solitude, stretches luxuriously under the sheets before wriggling out of her scratchy nightgown, throwing on clean jeans and flannel before she can succumb to the urge to cup both breasts; thighs squeezing tight at the cool air as she imagines Becky Akers from fifth period whispering in her ear, putting those delicate pianist's fingers _right there_.

Now that's the devil's work.

The darkening sky matches her spirits as she hurries out to the chicken coop. Spreading the scratch and freshening their water, checking for eggs in between scoops, she can imagine the reactions of both her parents in exquisite detail: Father's horrified anger, _your own mother, not a year since she left us, and this is how you repay her?_ And Mother smiling her secret smile: _All acts of love and pleasure, these are Her rituals..._

She moves on to the goats, doesn't consider cutting a single corner of her chores. Rain's coming on, out of the east, and all she wants is to get back inside and put the kettle on for some hot cocoa. Wrap up in Mom's quilt, prop her feet by the fire and work on her knitting. Not that there's immediate need to play the dutiful daughter. Beth won't be back until tomorrow morning; her father and brother as soon after that as traffic will allow. But while her recent acting out might be barely excused by grief, Tara knows she's lucky to have the privilege of being trusted again so soon.

Though it's safe to say her scholarship to UC Sunnydale did its share to weaken her father's infamous resolve. Probably why she can't seem to shake this nervous energy; spends every waking moment keeping a lid on anticipation and fear. She hasn't been out to her spot in the woods since she buried the box with Mom's things, not twenty-four hours after they'd lowered her into the ground as well. She wants to go tonight, make sure it's safe and sound.

Instead she forces herself to complete her rounds, checking the fence for downed sections. She's halfway around when she thinks to look for herbs. Broom top and borage find their way into her pockets, verbena and jasmine: _Courage, protection, relaxation, positive energy._ There's coriander and cardamom still on the pantry shelves, but it's a little soon to be looking for love. Really, she's pushing her luck with the jasmine. Even if it's more for meditation than

( _sex_ )

She builds the fire high and hot when she gets back, making her offering out on the porch to avoid suspicious smells. The scant handful of leaves and blossoms produces more sputter than smoke, doesn't burn quick and easy like if it were properly dried and prepared. The intent is more the thing; a wordless prayer, in keeping with proper cautionary principle, as Tara looks out over the scrubby yard and realizes how much she will always miss this place she so desperately wants to never see again.

Smoke dissipates in the air, swallowed by the rising wind, and she feels a little better. Enough to doze off, curled up by the stove while the wind whips ever higher, threatens to raise the shingles from the roof.

She really would get up and check, but she's in one of those endless, ephemeral loops where you're never quite sure if you're asleep or awake. The lack of television in the Maclay household makes Tara's occasional exposure all the more perplexing, like that Christmas she spent at Addy Farnham's when _The Year Without a Santa Claus_ on their color set combined with her father's more brimstoney sermons to give her disturbing dreams for a week. This one's just confused, and obvious to boot. Marlene Dietrich is _not_ going to be the new math teacher; not wearing a tux, on her very first day...

The bang makes her head jerk straight up. Tara wipes away a spot of drool, ignores her pounding heart and aching back as she struggles to assemble a coherent thought.

She throws off the blanket and stands, legs still half-asleep. Could be the neighbor's dog; maybe coyotes, less heedful of shouts and thrown shoes. The odds against human visitors have been falling since before Tara was born, with the slow decline of the rail system and the hoboes who rode it.

Of course as Father unceasingly reminds them, there's also a freshly constructed state prison not twenty miles away. As if to cement this, there's another muffled scuffle, along with a definite human curse.

She pauses in the middle of pulling on boots and coat. Easy enough to lay hands on Dad's shotgun, behind the door; not so much to pull the trigger, regardless of target. Tara knows perfectly well some predators respect little else. Still, the foremost negative argument is less her own fear of responsibility than the knowledge that her father will hold her strictly accountable if that gun goes off, for any reason. And what if something happens to her anyway?

At this point, she won't be missed.

Common sense and self-preservation win out, but the cold, heavy metal in her hands provides little reassurance as Tara hurries out to the shed. The chickens have settled, no longer providing enraged commentary; the moon riding low, orange and swollen.

She tightens her grip on the stock, approaches the ramshackle structure with increasing trepidation.

The door hangs open a fraction of an inch.

 

**

 

Faith hasn't slept much the past few days, since her latest hitchhiking attempt went down in flames. If she'd been thinking clearer she'd have taken his car, ditched it at the state line. If she'd done what she wanted to, the bastard would have been shaking hands with his guts. Instead she took the knife he tried to use, the pathetic wad of bills in his pocket, before leaving him unconscious in that filthy gas station restroom; head in the shitter, pants round his ankles. Even that brief pleasure faded to cold comfort after spending the worse part of yesterday in a boxcar so slow, she'd have made better time on foot.

She still can't believe the police aren't on her tail. She's seen too many cop shows -- and too many cops -- to think they won't be champing at the bit to question a notoriously troubled teen who'd been seen for months in the company of a distinguished Harvard professor. Right up to the day said professor was

( _torn apart_ )

She tries not to think about that.

Focus on the prize.

Which if Diana's photo album is to be believed, is a tiny blonde cheerleader with a million-dollar smile. Kind of girl she normally wouldn't give the time of day, much less grace with a fat lip. Except this chick's the one with the power; the same power that runs through her now, sweeter than any drug, and already Faith is more than just a little in love with a total stranger. No matter how much of a stuck-up bitch she might turn out to be.

She also doesn't know much geography, but compared to where she started out, she's got to be within spitting distance of the west coast. The Nevada desert still lies between her and the promised land, though she's not overly concerned about that leg of the journey. Plenty of civilization, from casinos to whorehouses. Better than being stuck in the backwoods, miles from any place worth robbing, let alone one that'll take her hard-stolen cash. At least she found a creek after she jumped the train, managed a quick skinny dip that only got her more worked up when she was too rattled to rub one out.

Right now she'd settle for a hot meal; can't stop fantasizing about everything from mac and cheese to surf and turf. This far out in the boonies even the farms are few and far between, and Faith's literally hungry enough to suck eggs. She'd watched the house for a while after sunset, seeing no sign of life but the smoke from the chimney, until her growling stomach sent her over the edge and into the coop. The occupants are none too pleased, but at least they're not trying to peck her eyes out.

She pauses in mid-suck, yolk dribbling down her chin. She's still having trouble adjusting to newly heightened senses, unable to discern sometimes between paranoia and real danger. Even so, every instinct is suddenly screaming it's way past time to bail.

Faith stuffs a couple eggs in her jacket, turns to the door, and nearly yells like a sissy when one of the goddamned chickens flies up in her face, squawking and flapping its stubby wings. She's trying to smack it down, trying not to laugh until her foot slips on something and she goes down like Nancy fucking Kerrigan; smacks her head on a bucket, lands flat on her side, feeling a wet *pop* inside her coat. Scrambles even less gracefully to her feet, stumbles right into the corrugated tin wall, bringing renewed avian outrage and an F-bomb that doesn't so much drop from her lips as explode, before she can hold back.Not one of her strong points; not on her best days...

She makes it to the door; freezes at the sound of footsteps. Then puts her back to the wall, breathing as quietly as possible. Remembering her Watcher's lessons.

Striving for stillness.

 

**

 

She's not sure where it happens. Somewhere in that moment of crossing the threshold -- not the smartest idea, but she's trying to keep the chickens from getting out -- the shotgun is ripped from her hands, so hard she scarcely feels the sting, pulling her off-balance. Then an arm wraps round her neck from behind, one hand in her hair bringing a cry that chokes off when another claps over her mouth.

"Shut up." The voice is low, as unmistakably female as the chest pressing into her back. "Understand?"

Tara nods despite her protesting scalp. The iron grip remains firmly in place.

"You alone?"

She nods again, blinking back tears.

"Good." The hand eases, doesn't quite let up. "Don't do anything stupid."

A shaky laugh makes its way from her mouth, as the hand is removed.

"Little late for that."

"You and me both." The faint chuckle doesn't allay her fears.

"W-what do you want?"

Mocking derision. "From you?"

 _Keep talking, keep her talking --_ "Are you in t-trouble?"

"Only thing I'm in is a hurry. As in a hurry to get the hell outta here."

Tara finds herself growing inexplicably bold. "You can come inside --"

A sharp, surprised bark of laughter makes her heart sink into her shoes.

"Wrong answer." Fingers circle her wrist and bear down. "You don't invite me in, you don't invite _anyone_ in! Got it?"

"Ow --" Tears threaten, equal parts confusion and fear. "O-okay, okay! You can't --"

"Too late." Lips tickle her ear. "You're dead."

She doesn't realize she's still alive until she's let go and shoved away, stumbling to stay upright. Tara holds up her hands; doesn't turn around.

"Man." The strange woman sounds weary to the bone. "You really did just fall off the turnip truck, didn'tcha?"

"I was --" Courage or stupidity forces her hand. "I was trying to be p-polite."

"Word of advice?" The note of cruelty returns. "Don't."

"We don't have a lot in the house. But you can take whatever you w-w-want --" She takes a deep breath. "I haven't seen your face, I w-won't tell anyone you were here --"

"Chill."

There's distinctly less menace in that syllable, but Tara falls dutifully silent. Chickens mill around her boots, an undercurrent of disturbed clucking.

The _shnk_ of the slide sends a jolt through her frame.

 

**

 

Faith doesn't believe in bluffing. Show your cards; play the hand you're dealt; keep watching the exits. That and the obvious is why it's a smart idea to keep this girl from laying eyes on her. She knows her handgun basics -- had occasion to use one, time or two -- but one look is all it'll take for someone to know it's her first time with one of these things in her hands. So she keeps her finger well away from the trigger, shotgun resting on her shoulder as she watches the girl make sure the coop door is latched and shut. The walk to the house gives her just enough time to enjoy the view, baggy jeans unable to conceal the roll of generous hips.

She makes country chick sit in the corner while she ransacks the cupboards, gun on the counter within reach. Plenty of staples; home canned jars of pickled pig's feet or whatever. Hardly anything she recognizes beyond some apples, a box of Little Debbies.

She's about to fill her pockets, then stops before her fingers go someplace sticky. She shrugs off her jacket and starts to wash up at the sink.

"You know, I _was_ trying to be polite."

"Really." Faith grimaces, barely paying attention as she scrubs slime from her tank top.

"Most folks around _are_ raised up proper." That soft voice sounds downright stubborn. "Help people, when they need it --"

"Yeah?" Faith scrubs harder. "Well, I was raised to mind my own fuckin' business. And I don't need a goddamn Miss Manners lecture from some two-bit Deliverance reject, so put that in your pipe and smoke it. _Capiche_?"

The lack of response isn't surprising. She sneaks a quick peek at the corner. The girl sits unmoving, facing the wall, hands in her lap. Like she does this all the time.

"Look, I'm --" Faith swallows the apology, before it slips out. "Didn't mean to scare ya. Just sit tight. I'll be outta here before you know it, and then you can get back to...whatever it is you guys do out here for fun."

 

**

 

Tara's not too clear on hostage protocol, but something is definitely wrong with her. She should be trying to defuse the tension; staying alert for a chance to run. The single sleep spell in her repertoire isn't the shortest of cantrips, even if she could make it through without stuttering, and she doesn't think her captor would let her get through the first stanza without -- well, doing _something_ she doesn't want to think about.

Not that she wants to be thinking what she is. Which is mostly how fantasies about dark and mysterious strangers don't really prepare a person for the real thing.

The water shuts off, leaving a void in its absence.

"Got any booze?"

"What?" Tara turns before remembering she's not supposed to. Her captor doesn't notice, or thinks her beneath notice.

"Hair of the dog?" Dark hair obscures the other woman's features. She cranes her head, surveying a jagged red line running down her shoulder. "You know -- candy's dandy, liquor's quicker?"

"My dad doesn't d-drink."

"Wine?" A sarcastic, secretive smile, as the woman gives her scab an experimental poke. "Right. Probably got himself a still out in the woods."

"He's a minister." Tara doesn't know why she's disputing this, or doing anything that could be construed as standing up for herself.

"Ya don't say." The woman continues to pick at the scab.

"Don't --" Tara breaks off as the woman lifts her head and glares. "I mean -- I could make something..."

The stranger regards her with no little suspicion. "Like what?"

"Um..." Tara's flustered for a moment, trying to recall her mother's lessons. "Comfrey, tea tree...marigold --"

"Snake oil." The woman's tone is dismissive, stinging more for the lack of contempt. She scans the kitchen with a critical eye. "Thanks, but I think I'll take..."

The lock to the cabinet door pops off in her grasp. The stranger stands on her toes, pulls out an unmarked bottle.

"...moonshine for a thousand, Alex."

She uncaps the bottle, making a face as she pours it over the wound.

Tara's head is still spinning from this revelation, but her brain is starting to process more details. Most of which are obviously irrelevant: The way the woman's lip crinkles, like she's trying not to bite down; the black circlet of thorny waves or barbed wire adorning the pale skin of one beautifully sculpted bicep. Pieces of hay are strewn throughout her hair, completing the windblown image.

"Are you hungry?" Tara ventures. The woman gives her that _turnip truck_ look.

"You must be," she amends. "With all that...egg on your face."

The woman glares back. Tara's just thinking she's made her last mistake, when the glare turns to an abashed half-grin.

 

**

 

Faith never offers an apology, and Tara doesn't ask. She often tries in weeks ahead to retrace her steps, figure out how in the world she got here, standing at the ocean's edge. She knows it involved talking -- more than Faith is comfortable with, even now -- and, by the time they both knew exactly where things were going, a bathtub. She remembers crying after, Faith freaking out until Tara convinced her they were tears of joy (then freaking out again). And Faith walking her out to the woods, stake in her hand; keeping watchful eye as Tara dug up the box with her mother's tools.

She didn't leave a note for her father. Or for poor, weak Donny, who gave her noogies and bought her lemon soda pops so he wouldn't have to say sorry. Faith tried to talk her out of leaving, but Tara just figured it was the universe's way of getting her to California ahead of schedule.

She's already signed up for classes, made two new friends standing in line. There's so much now she looks forward to: Curling up with Faith after a good Slay, or afterhours studies with Willow and Mister Giles. But her favorite is every Tuesday, when they all meet at Buffy's house for dinner; Xander cracking endless bad jokes, Dawn eagerly interjecting teenage wisdom whenever she can get a word in edgewise. Joyce hugs her, tells her how glad she is someone can make Faith happy.

Maybe it isn't true love. Maybe it won't last. But this is her family.

This is home.

 

 

\- [Sweetmorn, 16th Chaos, YOLD 3174](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Discordian_calendar)


End file.
